


Keep the Razor Sharp

by scifishipper



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-01
Updated: 2010-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-11 09:56:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifishipper/pseuds/scifishipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cain struggles to control her feelings for Gina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep the Razor Sharp

Helena wakes with a rush of oxygen flooding her lungs, a heady fog of passionate dreams dashed away in an instant. It is early, well before reveille, and she rouses without an alarm because her body knows. It is tuned into the rhythms of the ship and despite the thick walls of her quarters, she knows when the crew's activities begin to shift. With two hands she rubs the sleep out of her eyes, stands, and shakes herself before precisely tucking the sheets around the corners of her bunk.

Her t-shirt comes off, followed by thin sleeping pants – all regulation – comfortable enough, but not the crisp clean lines of her uniform. Sleep is a bodily function now, forced upon her by grueling shifts coordinating plans and giving orders. She steps into the shower, the clock in her mind counting down the two minutes she has allotted herself to this other necessary task. The soap lathers between her hands, and she washes efficiently, mentally calculating the number of days left in the bar. Her hand glides swiftly across her abdomen and she raises a knee to wash between her legs. As her fingers brush over sensitive flesh, Gina's image comes unbidden, intruding into her careful control. A flash of arousal triggers her hate and she spins the hot water knob, the scalding stream hitting her skin with an almost audible hiss. She does not flinch. The clock in her mind ticks away the remaining time, but she lingers, until the thoughts and images are eradicated from her mind by the pain of her flesh. Two extra minutes lost to that thing.

She emerges and stands before the mirror, welted, red, raw from the scald of the water, but her thoughts are blank and she rubs the towel over her skin, as if there were no burn. The coolness of her mind soothes the heat and she rakes a brush through her black hair, yanking hard at an unexpected knot. The hair rips out, pulling sharply at the base of her neck. She welcomes the pain.

She is unaffected by the rough of the uniform as it slides over tender skin, now prickling in response, hair standing stiff against the cloth threat. The starch of her uniform reminds her of duty and honor and purpose as she makes her final adjustments, straightening her pins, brushing stray lint, smoothing her hair.

She takes measured steps down the corridor, an imperceptible nod for soldiers' salutes and she wonders if they notice a difference. Her tight smile is now replaced by a thin line, harshness in her eyes, a creased brow. It's the stress of the war, they must think, and it is. But that is not all. It is her weakness, the allowance of betrayal under her watch. Admiral of the one ship fleet, hurled into war and battles they cannot win, alive through the grace of the gods, not due to her, but in spite of her. She knows the crew does not see, because they dare not look. And so she walks down the corridor, sealed in her armor, ready for the next decision, primed and razor sharp, just as she should have been all along.

Activities proceed as she wishes in the CIC, routine maintenance, continued repairs from the destruction of the colonies and several hard-won victories. A thin edge of blood lines the rim of the glass positioning map; a cursory cleaning had been enough to remove most of the remnants of her traitorous XO. She sees the crew pass the map quickly, staring straight ahead or at the ground as they move, avoiding her stare.

Two raptors on a reconnaissance mission report a badly damaged cylon heavy raider crashed on a small moon. They transmit images of the two cylon pilots, one a tall blonde and the other too badly mangled to identify. Helena draws a slow breath and stares hard at the dead face, mouth tightening against the morphing features in her mind; the white blond turns golden, dead flesh warms, and eyes crinkle with laughter. Despite her best efforts, the rage boils up inside her and she curses the need to look away.

The image lingers in her mind and the CIC is deadly quiet, no one daring to speak unless duty requires it. They are grateful for shift's end and hustle out of the CIC to return to their own comfort away from the risk. Cain remains for long hours, standing formally at her station, giving orders, making decisions until she can no longer stand without wincing, her back screaming with stiffness and pain, the imaginary rod of her spine shooting sparks into her legs and hips. It is then that she retreats to her quarters, re-tracing her steps until the hatch wheel spins behind her.

The red wine is measured, one eighth of a glass, and she allows herself to breathe it in. She regrets the impulse, her mind weakened from fourteen hours on her feet. The flash is there again, bright lines of white teeth, a perfect nose, sharp features belying softness. With an angry cry, the glass smashes against the wall, shards flying onto the air and the wine creates a burst with trails of red dripping to the floor. She stares at it and dutifully sweeps away the tiny slivers, leaving the spray sharply contrasted against the light gray of the walls.

When she cannot sleep, despite her body's aching need, she rises, dresses and walks to the detention cell. The thing is there, huddled, dirty, smears of blood and spots of bruises marking its flesh. She summons Thorn and he arrives, eyes hooded from alcohol, but she does not care. He takes away his hurts differently, brutally, then numbs himself against his actions. Helena does not need to speak; she simply nods and he enters the cell, grabs the thing and pushes it hard up against the glass. Helena sees its eyes – dead, spent, empty, and she watches, her own eyes alive with rage and something else she cannot acknowledge. She stares for long minutes until the image of its beauty, the allure of its skin, and the taste of its mouth are desecrated and defiled, obliterated from her mind. It is then that she is able to sleep.

The razor sharpened is a painless thing.


End file.
